


Fracture

by Moit



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Recovering, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: What bothers Steve the most about what they did to him isn’t what they gave, but what they took.Steve's got Bucky back, but at what cost?





	Fracture

What bothers Steve the most about what they did to him isn’t what they gave, but what they took. Steve can look past the metal arm, the battle scars (golly, so many scars), the preternatural stillness, and the haunted look in his eyes. But he’s so afraid he’s never again going to see Bucky throw his head back in laughter or toss a haughty smirk over his shoulder. The best Steve gets is a twitch at the corner of his mouth and fixed eye contact.

They settle into Avengers Tower (“Can’t keep calling it ‘Stark’ if you all insist on taking over, Cap.”) in separate beds, separate rooms. Steve tells him it’s “best” like this, but he’s not sure to whose best this is contributing, and he can’t even remember whose idea it was in the first place. Bucky accepts the words and the door he never shuts with the same quiet stare and a simple, “Okay.”

Steve gives him a wide berth, not because he wants to, but because they “recommended” he “give him some time.”

For weeks, Bucky lies in bed hollow-eyed and hardly looks up when Steve comes to check on him.

The doctors say his brain scans look fine. There’s nothing medically wrong with him.

Finally, Steve has had enough.

He drops Bucky’s boots—heavy, thick-soled, steel-toed—on the carpet in front of the bed. “Get up. We’re going out.”

Steve waits in the living room. He fidgets with the phone in his hand, his car keys, the zipper on his jacket, anything to keep himself occupied while he waits.

The sound of Bucky’s boots on the floor herald his arrival. Steve’s eyes sweep across the floor, and he frowns. Though Bucky stands before him dressed and shod, the laces of his boots remain stubbornly flung to each side of his feet like soldiers who have given up the fight.

“Are you ready? Tie your shoes, and we’ll go, pal.”

Buck raises his gaze from where it had been fixed on the floor, brushes the hair out of his eyes with his flesh hand. He wets his lips, the tip of his tongue slowly peeking out.

“I can’t.”

Steve’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “What do you mean you can’t?”

Bucky lifts his metal hand. It whirs and clicks as he clenches the fingers into a fist. “I can’t,” he says again, slower this time. “I don’t have the... dexterity in this hand to tie my shoes.” He uncurls the fist and spreads the fingers wide, studying the hand like it isn’t part of his body.

His words hit Steve like a punch in the gut.

 _He can’t tie his own_ shoes.

Pushing down his anger at HYDRA lest Bucky assume it’s directed at him, Steve forces his face into a neutral position. “Oh, Buck,” escapes from his lips before he can seal them closed.

Bucky watches silently as Steve kneels before him. The movement echoes an earlier time of tenderness and love. This time, Steve’s action is fueled by compassion rather than desire. He starts at the feeling of Bucky’s metal hand on the top of his head. As Steve looks up, Bucky’s hand remains in place so that his vibranium fingers glide seamlessly over Steve’s hair. Steve hasn’t more than glanced at Bucky’s new arm, so he tenses, waiting for the sharp tug on individual hairs that never comes. Their eyes meet, blue on blue. A jolt of emotion shoots through Steve’s body. These are the same eyes that had met his with apology— _stay safe until I get back, Stevie_ —with relief— _I’m here, Buck, you’re safe now_ —with rage above the eyes of Winter Soldier’s mask. Now, they’re filled with an intensity Steve can’t describe.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice is light, tentative.

After a moment, a low “Thank you” rumbles from Bucky’s chest. The hand on Steve’s head slides to his jaw. The fingertips are cool, not unlike the smooth metal of Steve’s shield. The familiarity of vibranium against his skin settles the anxiety in his chest.

He shifts his gaze back to Bucky’s boots, but the hand on his face remains. Steve makes quick work of the laces— _loop, swoop, pull, repeat_ —and pushes himself to his feet.

Bucky’s metal hand falls to his side with a low _whirr, click, click_.

“Why don’t you touch me anymore?”

The words catch Steve off guard, biting at him like the pinpricks of mosquitos. Bucky’s eyes are boring holes into him.

“I remember most of it,” Bucky continues. “You used to...” He fumbles for the words, grabs for one, throws it out with desperate hope. “Fuck me.”

“No,” Steve whispers, shaking his head. He reaches for Bucky’s flesh hand. “No, we made love.”

Bucky tilts his head to the side, his unblinking stare like that of a prehistoric bird surveying its prey.

“_Love_.” Bucky says the word slowly, drawing out each sound.

Steve places their joined hands over Bucky’s heart. “Love,” he repeats again, emphatically.

“Do you...” Steve has to pause to wet his lips. “Do you remember love, Bucky?”

Bucky opens his mouth, then seems to reconsider, and closes it. “I remember... images.” He closes his eyes and winces as though it causes him pain. ”You and me... in bed. Becky... playing ball... my ma.” Opening his eyes, Bucky blinks slowly. “I remember that it _is_ love, but I can’t _feel_ love.”

“Do you want to—I can—“ Useless, Steve’s hands flutter against Bucky’s chest like trapped birds.

“Show me?” Bucky asks, catching Steve more off guard than if he’d have pushed him backwards. Bucky tugs at Steve’s hands, pulling them down his body, settles them atop the not-uninterested bulge in his jeans. “Show me love, Steve. Make love to me.”

It’s on the tip of Steve’s tongue to say no. _You’re not completely healed. You don’t know what you’re asking._ But here he is, whole and hale, and he’s _asking for it_. He’s giving his consent.

Taking a deep breath, Steve starts to decline. His brain says _no, sorry, no_ , but his mouth says, “Okay.”

Bucky stands before him, mismatched arms arms hanging at his sides, and Steve doesn’t know how to proceed.

 _This is Bucky_ , Steve reminds himself.

Steve runs his hand up the length of the metal arm. He’s still surprised by how smooth it is in spite of all the plates that comprise its form. Like something out of Tony’s workshop, it assembles and reassembles itself according to Bucky’s movements.

Bucky watches Steve watch his arm. “I’m in control of it, not the other way around,” he says, clenching his fingers into a metal fist and then spreading them wide dexterously.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” Steve says with confidence and takes a step forward, pressing their their bodies together. They’re practically the same height now, and it’s so much different than when they were kids and Steve would nuzzle his head beneath Bucky’s chin. Now, they stand toe to toe, nose to nose.

With a slight tilt to his head, Steve skims his nose alongside Bucky’s. Their breath intermingles. Steve can smell the bitter quality of his mouth, but after living so long without it, he can’t bring himself to care. Steve’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and brushes Bucky’s bottom lip in its wake. Bucky inhales his breath sharply through his nose.

Another breath and Steve presses closer. Ever so slowly, their lips meet. Tentatively at first, then firmer. Bucky’s flesh hand finds its way to Steve’s bicep, cuffs it, holds it. One of Steve’s own hands winds around Bucky’s waist, pinning their bodies together.

The kiss lasts but a moment. Long enough to rekindle the spark of passion lying dormant between them.

Steve releases Bucky, but Bucky reaches for him with his metal hand. Again, he holds without squeezing.

Steve’s heart thunders in his chest.

“I love you.”

“I remember.”


End file.
